Double or Nothing
by BeautifulllDisaster09
Summary: John finds a little boy wandering the streets and brings him home. Who is this boy? And why does he look like an exact replica of Sherlock Holmes? R&R Warnings: Mentions of child abuse and neglect. ANGST!
1. A Strangely Familiar Face

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. All rights go to the BBC

SUMMARY: John Watson finds a little boy that looks exactly like Sherlock wandering the streets of London. He brings the boy home and the crime-solving duo delves into finding out where this little look alike comes from. The results are shocking. What will the two bachelors do, now that there is a little deducing genius in their midst? WARNING: Cuteness? Is that a warning? There will be mentions of child abuse. It will only be rated T because it won't be too graphic. Angst and light language here and there.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I got this idea when I read a story about the two of them adopting a child. I couldn't really see that happening. I figured that the only way that the two bachelors of 221B would come by a child is if it was practically forced upon them. Sorry, I just can't picture Sherlock being good with kids. John would be. But Sherlock would probably crush their soul! Any way I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE: A Strangely Familiar Face

His escape, he decided, was the best idea he had ever had. It no longer smelled of disinfectant, there were no more scientists to poking and prodding him. He was free. Free to do whatever he wished. The only problem was his age. No one in the outside world took him seriously. He was far too young, they assumed. They asked a lot of questions too. Questions he didn't know the answer to. _What's your name? Where are your parents? How old are you? Where do you live?  
><em>  
><em>What's your name?<em> He wasn't even sure he _had_ a proper name. The people at the lab just referred to him as "the child" or the experiment or **SH-115061**. He couldn't remember a time before the lab, so he wasn't sure if he had received a name at all. The most probable assumption was that he didn't have one and so this question was impossible to answer.

_Where are your parents_? He understood the basics of what a parent was and that everyone had them. He had heard many of the scientists at the lab talking about their children and the pains and troubles of parenthood. But he didn't suppose he had any parents. If he did, he had never seen them. Did parents leave their children? How long were people considered parents? Did it vary for each set of parents? So, this question was rendered impossible for him to answer as well.

_How old are you?_ Well that was an interesting question. Why did that matter? Not like he knew exactly. How could one be perfectly certain how old they were? Surly they could remember the date of their own birth. Human memory didn't stretch that far. He knew that he had to be at least five years old. But he couldn't be 100 percent positive. Perhaps, they kept it on file? In any case, he hadn't had the time to go looking for a file on himself while he was making his escape, so he doubted he would ever know.

_Where do you live?_ Well, he lived in the lad previously, but he wasn't sure exactly where it was located, as he hadn't stayed around long enough to check. Besides, when people asked this question, they had a certain tone in their voice that indicated that they would return him to wherever it was that he lived, and he had absolutely no intention of returning to the lab. Ever. And now, he supposed he lived wherever it was that he fell asleep. So, was never a specific place.

The questions weren't the only thing that was difficult for him though. It was the sights and sounds that really put his mind on overload. Everything was a blast of color. He was used to the lab, which was terribly monochromatic in its color scheme. But London was alight with every color under the sun. The luminosity of it all sizzled and danced in his mind, making him turn his head every which way, in order to see as much as possible.

And then there were the sounds. Everything was loud. Even the silence of the night and deserted back alleyways was loud. Horns and sirens and people shouting and chattering filled the air. Rain pattered as it splattered about the streets, bouncing off of brick and glass. It was like mental overload for the little genius' mind. But his escape had still been the best idea he had ever had. Because all of this was exponentially better than the lab, where he was forced to endure tests and procedures. And where he was made to sleep in cage. _At least here, I'm free_! He thought as he wandered through the streets of the busy London. Very suddenly, he knocked quite forcefully into a short, strong, blonde man, causing the boy to fall gracelessly onto his rear.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" the man cried before taking in the sight of the dirty, vagrant child. "Oh, Christ! You're just a kid!" The man reached down to help him to his feet. The little, lost genius allowed himself to be set aright, but he couldn't hold back the slight flinch. Physical contact was never pleasant in his past experiences. He kept his eyes downcast.

"Are you alright?"

Well, that was a new question. _Was_ he alright? Did the man mean physically? Overall? He supposed he was fine, aside from the pain in his feet from walking hundreds of miles to the city, the hunger that was nagging constantly at his empty stomach, and the chill he felt from his lack outer clothing and the holes in the rags hanging from his form. What did this man mean? He took in everything he could about the man in front of him. He had a strong build and he held himself like the guards at the lab. Was he a soldier? He didn't seem like a soldier. His hands had been gentle and caring, and he had a soft tone to his voice. Not like the harsh demanding tones of the men that guarded his cage at the lab.

"Did I hurt you?" the man asked with genuine concern in his voice.

The little boy shook his head, making his dark, springy curls bounce about his face. Who was this nice soldier? He turned his eyes up to the man's face. Maybe there were some clues there. They made eye contact and the expression on the man's face turned to that of puzzled confusion.

"You look just like..." He started. "Who are your parents? Do you know?"

The boy cocked his head to the side before shrugging. It was a little different from the question he was usually asked, but he still didn't know the answer.

"Can you talk?" the man questioned, causing the forlorn child to look away from him and back to the ground. The child did know how to speak, but bad things usually happened when he spoke, so he tried to refrain as much as possible.

"Well," the man said as he reached back to scratch at the back of his blonde head. "It looks like it's going to rain. Why don't you come with me to my flat until it passes? Would you like that?"

The child figured it would be much better than getting rained on, so he nodded. Again the man looked slightly confused, before offering down his hand. The boy eyed it curiously. What was he supposed to do? He looked up at the nice soldier questioningly. The man smile warmly and reached down to take the smaller hand within his own larger, calloused one. The little boy decided he like that feeling very much. Together, they walked down the busy street.

SH... SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH

John Watson was utterly confused by the small child, of no more than six years old, he had found on the street of the city. The boy was an exact replica of his flat-mate. Did Sherlock Holmes have a son? It didn't seem likely. In fact, it seemed slightly comical. But what other explanation could there be? He hadn't been completely convinced that the little boy had been a relation of Sherlock's, until the little one had flicked his round eyes up toward him. They were the exact same, eerie pale green as his fellow flat-mate's. This was much more than a coincidence.

Then, there was how the little boy held himself: quiet, cautious, and insecure. But yet, he still had a childlike trusting spirit, as he had agreed to come home with him, a complete stranger. Wouldn't the child know about Stranger Danger at all? Perhaps not. It was hard to know what the little Sherlock knew because the boy did not speak.

"My name is John, by the way," he told the child, who was gripping his hand lightly. "Do you know your name?"

The child shook his head. Amnesia? Orphan? John couldn't be sure.

"Okay, well, my flat is just 'round the corner, there. On Baker Street. So, not much further. We'll get there and I'll make you some warm milk, okay?"

The boy cocked his head slightly, but nodded anyway.

"Don't mind my flat-mate. He's a bit on the strange side. But he's harmless, I promise."

They got to the flat and John opened the door and led the migrant child inside. _He's a bit dirty._ John thought as he took in the rumpled curls and dirt smudges on his cherubic face. The little boy's eyes were alight, though, as he took in everything around him as John showed him upstairs and into the kitchen. There, one Sherlock Holmes, was sitting at the table staring into a microscope.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Busy," the detective muttered.

"Sherlock," John tried again, a bit more forcefully.

"Busy!" Sherlock snapped.

"We have company."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. They fell on the little boy before him. "Why did you bring a little boy here, John? Isn't that what someone like you would consider irresponsible?"

"Do you notice anything about him?" John asked. "Anything odd?"

The little boy was confused now. What was odd? Should he be taller? Shorter? He had to force himself to not to squirm as the dark haired man in the kitchen studied him carefully.

"He is a bit filthy," Sherlock stated. "But that's not really odd considering he's been sleeping on the streets of London."

"No, Sherlock," John sighed. "He looks like you. Exactly like you."

A/N : Hey guys let me know if you like and if I should continue! Feedback is welcomed! Thanks for reading! R&R please! :3


	2. What Child is This?

DISCLAIMER: I still don't own the Sherlock series! I am just a crazy fan girl! :)

AUTHIR'S NOTE: I know, I know! It has been far too long since I updated this! Sorry! I've got a lot of thing to upload as well so I hope that you all will bare with me while I desperately try to type all of these stories up! Anyway! I hope you like the new chapter! R&R si vous plait! I LOVE the feedback!

Chapter Two: What Child is This?

Sherlock looked the small child over once again. He supposed the little boy _did_ resemble him, but what did that mean? It's not like the boy was his son. Was that what John thought? That the vigrant child before them was his _son?_

"What are you implying, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. "That I have a child? _Me?_"

John seemed to shake himself back to reality. "Right, of course not. Impossible," he said, as though he was just remembering who Sherlock was and how the eccentric man lived his life. It would be impossible for the detective to have a son. It would mean that the man would have had to be intimate with someone and that was completely absurd. If one thing was certain, it was that Sherlock Holmes was asexual.

"It is odd that he resembles myself so completely though," Sherlock muttered, his expression turning pensive. "We should check his DNA. I'll also need to know where he came from."

"Well, good luck with that," John told him. "I can't get him to speak."

" Really?" Sherlock stood suddenly and crossed to the mystery child in long strides, a frustrated scowl on his face. "Who are you?" he demanded of the boy loudly when his face was just inches from the boy's. The child flinched back.

"Sherlock!" John protested, pulling the little one away from his narcotic flat mate. "Stop it! He's just a kid."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to John's. "Not good?" he asked quietly.

" A bit not good, yeah," John told him, temper cooling as he realized that Sherlock simple did not know the proper procedure for this type of thing.

The detective pulled back and said a quick, "Sorry," to the boy, who was gazing at him in a wary fashion. Then, Sherlock's expression went distant again as he thought of a solution. Something seemed to click and he looked back at John. "I'll need his clothing and shoes, then, in order to see where he's been. If we're lucky we will be able to pinpoint where he's from by the chemical traces on his clothing." He then pulled out his phone and began dialing away.

John looked down at the the child that was still standing at his hand and looking up at him expectantly. The boy was thin, like he hadn't eaten in a long while. He had dark circles under his eyes indicating that he hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks. The boy was dirty, but not so dirty that one would think he had lived on the streets all of his life. So was he a runaway? But if that was the case, where did he run away from and why? John knew from his studies at Bart's that a child of this age did not run away and _stay _away, unless there was a good reason. John was brought out of his thoughts as Sherlock began talking into his phone.

"Mycroft," Sherlock's tone was clipped, but urgent. "I need you to get over to my flat right away. No, no, no one is injured. Just come." He hung up with his brother and started heading back over to his microscope.

"So, then what?" John asked.

"Sorry?" Sherlock answered, confused.

"So, we find out where he's from, and then what?" John asked. "We can't send him back." The doctor subconsciously gripped the little one's hand a little tighter.

"Why ever not?" Sherlock replied.

"Because!" John insisted. "It's clear that whoever had him before was not kind to him!"

"Obviously," Sherlock stated. "It is clear by the state of his clothing, lack of speech, and the obvious signs of malnutrition. But what concern is that of ours?"

"It's our concern because we're _human_, Sherlock!" John cried. "It's in our nature to take care of those who can't take care of themselves!"

"Ah," Sherlock replied, exasperated. "So it's sentiment. Dull."

"Yes, Sherlock," John explained, irritation creeping into his tone with every word. "I'm a doctor! It is my _job_ to help those who need my help! Sorry that we all can't rid ourselves of emotion like the Great Sherlock Holmes!" With that he turned and led the, extremely confused at this point, little boy out into the sitting room. He settled the child on the couch and left to make the boy some warm milk, as promised, and a quick bite to eat.

He walked back into the kitchen and ignored the detective sitting at the microscope as the man watched him intently. He warmed some milk in a mug and set about making some toast with jam.

"You're upset with me," Sherlock said quietly behind him.

"Figure that out all on your own, did you?" John gritted out. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean to upset you," the detective informed him. "You know I don't understand this sort of thing. The science of it, certainly. But when it comes to emotions... _sentiment_... I don't understand. I'm sorry, John."

At this the doctor sighed. "I know you don't understand sentiment, Sherlock. But do try to keep in mind that we're dealing with a child here. A living, breathing, _emotion- feeling_ child, Sherlock. So, try to imagine how it must feel in his place. Please, just try that for me, okay?"

At the detective's hesitant nod, John brought the milk and jam out to the dark haired boy on the couch. His short legs were dangling off of the ground and the child was kicking them absentmindedly as he looked around the room. _He really _is _quite adorable._

John smiled warmly as the boy's eyes landed on him. "Here you go," he said as he walked further into the room. I've brought you the warm milk I promised you. And some toast as well. You look hungry."

The child snatched the plate out of the doctor's hand the moment it was presented and immediately began devouring the toast with gusto. He looked more like a starved dog than a little boy, and John felt his heart break for this mysterious child. He set the milk on the coffee table and sat down in the chair next to ravenous mini-Sherlock. When the boy was finished with his "meal," he eyed the mug of milk before looking up at John questioningly, almost asking permission.

"It's all yours," the doctor told him gently.

The boys questioning gaze turned suspicious. It would be easy for this man to have drugged his drink. Or his food for that matter. But it was too late to worry about the food. Besides, it would be easier to drug the drink. John had been nice to him so far, but he wasn't about to put his trust in someone, especially an adult, quite so blindly.

John watched as the rumpled little boy looked at the boy in hesitant suspicion. The child must have been drugged in the past, or been given something harmful enough to make him wary of an unknown drink. "It's okay," John told him, causing round green eyes to flash up to meet his. "I haven't done anything to it." When the child did not seem to be reassured by this, John asked. "Would you like me to take a drink first and show you?"

The boy nodded and John tipped the mug back and sighed as the warm fluid hit his throat. "There, see?" he said handing back the cup. "There's nothing wrong with it."

With his fears disproved, the little Sherlock replica began gulping down the drink with every bit of fervor in which he had attacked the toast. When the cup was drained, he drew a deep breath and smacked his lips. That had been delicious. He never knew that food could taste like that. Everything he had ever eaten was always bland and boring tasting. He wondered what else this nice soldier – or doctor. He had said he was a doctor – could teach him. He looked up at the man expectantly. _What do I do now?_

John looked down at the child that was now staring at him as if he hung the stars. "Well, it's a little early for dinner, but I'll be making chicken. Until then, we can get you cleaned up. Would you like that?"

The child nodded shyly. He was not particularly looking forward to being "cleaned up," as it was not usually a pleasant experience. But the dirt covering his body was beginning to itch in the most uncomfortable places.

"Wait!" Sherlock called from the doorway. "Before you clean him, I need the DNA samples. You can give his clothes once he's shed them as well."

"Um, okay," John said to him. "What exactly do you need?"

"Two hair samples and a mouth swab. A urine sample would be nice, but not necessarily crucial."

"Okay," John said again, this time turning to the little boy on the couch. "Do you think I could have two of your hairs? And that you could let Sherlock swab your mouth? It will only take a second and it won't hurt a bit."

The child merely nodded as if it was the most normal request in the world. Of course, to him, it _was_ normal. He handed over a couple of curly hairs, plucked straight from his scalp, before opening his mouth and waiting patiently for the swipe of cotton. So, this Sherlock man was a scientist of some sort. He didn't seem to overly concerned with poking and prodding him, though, so the little boy decided that he was probably not like the scientists he was used to.

Once the DNA collected, the nice soldier/doctor, John, led him up the stair and into a strange room with a bunch of porcelain objects. One looked like the wash basin he was used to at the lab, only it was much smaller and higher off of the ground. Another looked somewhat like a chair, except for the fact that it had a hole in place of the seat, that led to what looked like a bowl full of water. Finally, John led him to a set of blue curtains, only to pull them back to reveal what looked to be a large bowl, built into the ground. John leaned over the giant bowl and turned at a couple of knobs, causing water to come crashing from a metal faucet. He had a feeling that this was going to be a lot different form the hose and sponge cleaning he was accustomed to. When water had been dispersed nearly to the top, John turned to him again.

"Ready?" he asked, confused that the child hadn't come further into the bathroom yet. The mini-Sherlock just eyed the bathtub in confusion. _Surely, he's had a bath before._ "It's okay," John soothed. "It's just water. It won't hurt you, I promise."

The filthy child shuffled forward, hesitantly, eyes never leaving the tub. John reached down and ran his hand back and forth through the water gently.

"It's nice and warm," John told him. "Do you want to feel?" He was silently thanking any and all deities for his training as a doctor, or this would have been even _more_ difficult.

The little boy dipped his hand into the warm water and his eyes snapped up in surprise. The water wasn't freezing cold! It was pleasantly warm! He offered John a small, shy smile. It was returned warmly by his nice soldier.

"You want to get in, so you can get cleaned up?"

The boy nodded and began to get in, clothes and all.

"Wait!" John cried, causing the child to flinch and pull back from the water, as if he had been burned. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. It's just that you have to take your clothes off first."

Well, that was new. Why did he need to take his clothes off? They were dirty too. At the lab, he was usually sent through a shower in his clothes and then sent into a sanitizing station. The only time he had to take off his clothes was after a physical, when he was going to get the hose and sponge treatment, but John wasn't holding a hose or a sponge. Perhaps, the outside world did things a bit differently? So, he nodded in understanding and shed his clothes quickly. He stood before John, completely naked and wondering what to do next.

"Okay," John said, his doctor persona taking full control now. "Climb on in." The boy complied.

"Do you need help cleaning yourself?" The child was only very small after all, John supposed.

The boy shook his head and quickly dipped himself in the water and began to stand up, assuming he was now clean.

"Mmm... no," John said quietly, so as not to frighten the child. "Here, sit back down and I'll help you." In no time, John had the migrant child squeaky clean and wrapped in a warm fluffy towel.

"Have you ever had a bath like that before?" John asked him as he led the boy toward his bedroom to find him something to wear, since Sherlock would be analyzing the rags he _had_ been wearing. The child responded by shaking his head in the negative. This worried John to no other. Where had this boy been living, if he had never had a proper bath?

Once in his bedroom, he pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of draw-string shorts. In a jiffy, the boy was clad in the too large clothing and he and John re-entered the living room. The man sat the child on the couch and turned on the telly to a child appropriate program, watching as the child's face lit up in wonder at the glowing screen.

"Okay," John said. "You stay here and watch this for a bit while I make dinner." He was halfway to the kitchen when Mycroft arrived. Th government official took one look and the child on the couch and his eyes widened in surprise.

"I see why this was urgent," he said. "He's the spitting image."

"Indeed," Sherlock said from the kitchen in a bored tone. "Mycroft, here are his hair samples. I need you to find out everything you can about his DNA."

"Mmm," Mycroft responded, his eyes never leaving the boy on the couch. "In the mean time, keep him here. We may need to come back and question him."

"Obviously," Sherlock responded. "Just find out who he is."

A/N: There you go, y'all! I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review! I live off of them! :3


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